Parting Shots
by JamKaraLee47
Summary: “Suddenly, your biggest fear has been realized. You’ve been played.” Vaughn 2nd POV. Takes place after Nocturne, then goes AU.
1. Story

**Title:** Parting Shots

**Author:** Sentra Aquila formerly Coffee Crazy

**Rating:** PG-13

**Pairing:** Sydney/Vaughn

**Disclaimer:** I own only my story.

**Summary: **"Suddenly, your biggest fear has been realized. You've been played." Vaughn 2nd POV.

**Author's Note:** I'm sad to say that this will probably be the last fanfiction I shall write for Alias for it no longer inspires me with the new story-telling format as seen on TV. Thus, I'd like to thank all my readers, especially Kimmers, whose been reading my stories for the longest time on both and In addition, I'd like to thank Lor, my former muse, who disappeared while we were at out prime. It was fun while it lasted. Finally, I'd want to congratulate myself for pulling an all nighter!

**Feedback:** I would like some feedback...preferably the good kind. But if you hate it please feel free to flame; though I warn you I'll probably just laugh and ridicule you.

**Parting Shots**

Simpatico.

You know this feeling, you know it well. A state of agreeability, of like-mindedness. It was as if you had met your soulmate. She fit you in every little way.

With her, there were no petty arguments over Chinese or Italian, chicken or tuna. She simply consented to whatever you chose. _Every time_. Perhaps that should have been your first sign.

Routine.

You always picked on her habits commenting on their borderline anal-retentive status. In particular, how she brushed her hair back behind her ears. Or how at night she had a glass of wine as she stepped into her bath. All these little quirks were very much a part of her, and you never asked her to change. So when she asked you not to join her for morning jogs you dismissed it as "just another one of her silent rituals." If only, you weren't so blind.

Normalcy.

God. That was laugh. She once said she give anything in the world to be normal for one day. _"Like normal people, with normal jobs." _So it didn't surprise you when she quit. She wasted 12 years to the dedication of espionage and was dying to start anew. Therefore, you surrendered to her charismatic smile and doe eyes and moved into her house. After all, that was the next step in your relationship, wasn't it? Meet, secret glances, date, move in, marry. Oh god. Marriage.

There was a candlelight dinner on a vineyard terrace with a violinist patiently awaiting to serenade her under the starry sky. There was only one problem. Stage fright.

Somewhere in the middle of the highway, your poker face began to fail. She called you in her gentle voice, "Michael, you look green. What's wrong?"

All you remember was pulling over on the shoulder lane and vomiting.

Two weeks later, you didn't have to ask her the question. Instead, you placed your coat on her shivering form. Digging her frost nipped fingers into the gaping pockets, she pulled out that small velvet box. For a moment, you saw a flicker across her expressionless face. A flicker of knowledge.

Then your fate was sealed with that one little word, "_yes_."

Five years of complacency had passed since that night. Your relationship evolved into a tacit understanding. Unlike the rocky marriage of your parents', she never asked you to leave the CIA. On the contrary she encouraged your movement up the ranks, until you finally became Director of Operations. Rather, then appeal to you to come to bed and abandon the paperwork, she contented herself with household work when she wasn't tending her garden of white roses.

And for a while the two of you developed a silence. And you doubted whether or not this new position was hampering your marriage. Thus, one day you asked her honest opinion on a reconnaissance mission in Prague. Her whole face lit up and soon polishing the details on the assignments became a nocturnal hobby.

You didn't dare to withhold information of the secret agendas fearing an another irreparable rift. Plus, when she was pouring over the maps and charts, it was as if the old spy in her resurfaced and you missed that piece of her.

Now you can't help, but scold yourself for sharing declassified Intel, for sending countless agents into her bloodstained hands.

Simpatico. Routine. Normalcy. Or so you thought.

On this particular morning, you decide to drive to work early after Director Dixon phoned that Agent Harris was intercepted by the enemy. You feel obligated to come immediately since several of the missions you coordinated have recently resulted in the disappearance or death of your agents. Oh how you wish you had opted to arrive at your regular clock in time.

On the drive to headquarters, you spy her jogging a block ahead at a steady pace into the heart of main street. Her presence distracts you from your assigned goal of the morning. Your mind tells you to play a trick on her._ Follow her and surprise her with kiss._ Yes, that would bea sweet gesture of affection, you muse. _Maybe that can finally repair the nagging feeling of some distant rift in your lives._

She stops three blocks later and stretches her calves near the park using the payphone as a support. You're halfway out of your car when you notice it, or should you say, _him_. The stranger puts his lips to the phone, but is speaking directly to your wife. Unconsciously, you move behind a tree obscuring you from her view. Not that it would matter because she looking east of your position. The following minute her body is racked with her melodic laughter causing you assume he said something funny. And then, she turns her head and gazes right at him with that dimpled smile, once reserved only for you.

And suddenly it's all so familiar, so similar. Yet, you can't place it. And then instantly it hits you like a ton of bricks. Deja vu.

Suddenly, your biggest fear has been realized. You've been played.

_You have another Lauren on your hands. _

"Michael, I bought that bottle of French wine you love so much," she cries in a singsong voice following the click of the front door.

You don't respond, maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe you're still dealing with this novel revelation.

She enters the room and puts the wine on the table. Absentmindedly, she rearranges the roses in their vase. "Michael, you won't believe the great run I had this morning. I was running pass the park and I remembered the picnic we had there a few months ago. Maybe, we should do that again."

Rage takes over your better judgement and immediately the words come out clear and decisive, "Yes, we should and I'll turn off my cell phone so we aren't distracted by strangers calling us."

She tenses up. Even though all you can she is the back of her head, you can imagine the sheer look of bewilderment on her face. Slowly, she turns around to face you. Amazingly, she doesn't look like your wife anymore, but someone entirely different. An absolute stranger.

Her voice comes out cool, with a faint trace of disappointment, "How long have you known?"

"Since this morning. I saw _him_," you sneer, "The rest wasn't to hard to figure out the rest." Standing up from the couch, you draw out the gun from behind and point it at your former love. "You only helped me with those missions so you could pass the information to your superiors, haven't you? Haven't you, Sydney"

She laughs bitterly and sits down at the head chair. Her palms rest on the top of the table. This strikes you as odd, since you instinctively thought she would reach for a gun and blow your brains out.

Meanwhile, her eyes never leave yours. Perhaps, she's buying time or she's looking for weakness. Her opportune moment when you blink and she lunges at you with a concealed knife. You wonder if she'll attack right now, while your befuddled mind contemplates_ "Shoot first, ask questions later." _But you've always been curious and the questions are gnawing at your nerves.

"My name's not Sydney."

Oh fuck. "Who the hell are you? Where's Sydney?"

She rises from her perch and strides toward you. She continues despite your tight grip on the trigger.

"She died. Remember Nocturne, Michael. Did you really believe found the antidote? God, you just grabbed whichever without even reading the label carefully. But then again you were so desperate to find a miracle cure," she said with her lips curving into a smile. "On the Covenant's orders, the Cadmus Revolutionary Front planted the fake medication there and followed you back to the hospital. Our doctor ushered you out of the room to 'run some tests.' Shortly afterwards, Sydney went into cardiac arrest from your 'antidote.' Don't worry, she died quickly."

Oh god, the pain is unbearable. You killed Sydney. _You killed Sydney because you didn't read the fucking label_. Worse, you disgraced her memory by marrying some traitor.

"So when Jack and I came back into the room they had already disposed of her corpse and _you_ were laying in her bed."

She stands a mere two inches away. Her lips poised right above his ear whisper, "Exactly."

This is your cue. Your time to shoot, but you can't because no matter who this is, she still resembles your Sydney.

It occurs to you that she's told you all this for two reasons. By dredging up all the memories of that missions, she's distracted you. She wants you to succumb to denial. The second motive becomes apparent when you feel the cool metallic barrel on your neck.

"Hello, Mr. Vaughn."

Sark, the bastard. Reluctantly, you surrender your gun to faux-Sydney as a grin dances on her mouth.

With both weapons aimed at your chest, they circle you and unite in a wet, passionate kiss. Bile rise in your throat as you watch Sark devour your wife. Having satisfied themselves, they break apart and Sydney nods in the direction of the study. "Grab the rest of the plans. I'll handle this."

Sark lustfully licks his lips and departs into the inner sanctuaries of your house.

Piteously she observes your confusion, an inexplicit gesture for you to ask one final question.

"If this was all about the mission plans, why did you quit the CIA? After all Sydney had access to all this information as well?"

"I'm sure she did. But don't you think Jack Bristow and everyone else would have figured out something was wrong with their precious Sydney? Minimize contact, less chance of being compromised. But you, you were so blind with love to realize anything, Michael."

The puzzle pieces align in place and there's no doubt anymore. However, it's too late now to toss it back into the box. You've fucked everything up. You murder your love and married her clone bearing her dimpled smile and flashing white pearls.

With the simultaneous click of the study door and the gun, blood pours out in a stream from your chest. And all you see is her face. Sydney's face. Her murderer's face. Your body in vain strains to breathe from its blood clogged lungs, as she straddles you.

She leans over and in a icy tone answers, "My name is..."

The End

AN: Snaps to whoever figured out faux-Syd wasn't really because she kept calling him Michael!

I'm off to my retirement home now! Thanks for reading! P.S. I'll be over at Battlestar Galactica is anyone misses me!


	2. Explainations

Dear Readers,

Truthfully, I don't know who he married. Last night when I was writing, I had originally planned for Sydney to be the culprit. However, as I keep thinking about it, there was no reason for her to "turn to the dark side" so to speak.

Then, I decided to make faux-Sydney either Lauren or Francie, but neither seemed to really fit; mainly because Lauren is DEAD and I really wouldn't wish another bovine on our poor Vaughn.

So I left the name blank; the mystery behind the name is enigmatic. Could it be Lauren, Francie, Anna, someone else?

Frankly my dears, I have NO clue. It's up to you to intrepret it.

Returning to the Writer's Retirement,

Stephanie


End file.
